


Sands of Time

by ElfiesInk



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Reader is the master of being oblivious to God and Man, gender neutral reader, vampire!reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-02-15 19:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18675919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElfiesInk/pseuds/ElfiesInk
Summary: If you pour sand into an hourglass until it's full, how will you know how long as passed? You won't. Time loses meaning and doesn't gain it back even if the glass strains under the pressure and shatters into countless pieces. All you're left with is a pile of sand and questions that nobody can answer.Or maybe they can? How long has it been since you've had a conversation with a scientist, a philosopher, anybody? How long have you just been wandering from place to place with no purpose or intention? You have been content to let yourself sink into the past. It's so easy to let the feeling of loss rule over you, a great and insurmountable tyrant. And then your footsteps somehow bring you to the edge of a battlefield. Flashes of blue announcing bullets and lightning. You don't know who these people are. Don't know who you are. But somehow whoever 'you' are, you end up at a shut-down Overwatch base at the edge of the Spanish coast. And then you see her.And for a moment, for a moment you are not then and there. You are here, and now, and so is she. An anchor in the sands.





	1. Adrift

You were never good with time. It flows through your fingertips like sand. Individual moments, countless little memories, all fall out of order tumbling to the bottom of the hourglass. They crowd the tiny space until it breaks and everything escapes you. Lost. You know being lost very well. You have been lost, again and again. It kept happening until all you could do was let go. Of time, of memories, of yourself. You had no choice. It wasn’t the end of you but you will never have an end. You don’t even have a beginning anymore. Just time.

And you aren’t good with time.

It’s night when you walk the streets of Rome. You drift with untethered memories flowing around you. Drowning you. You’re so easily overtaken and can’t bring yourself to fight it. Or at least, to endure it. Why.

You walk a street of sepia tones and nostalgia. Is it winter? It must be; it’s cold and the streets are filthy. The path is poorly lit by flickering oil lamps and you can so easily pretend like there’s nothing getting buried beneath the sheets of snow. Cold white ice piling up to your neck and every pair of eyes that falls upon you is filled with suspicion. You are a stranger to them. Were. Are. Will be. 

There are tracks in the snow. The patterns of tires, lines cut by wagon wheels, foot prints. A blank untouched canvas of freshly fallen flakes. Lamps lighting the street, electric, then oil, then, Nothing. No one went out at night. Just you, and you floated through the fog without caring where you ended up. Life could guide you wherever it wanted. From corner to corner, with ears full of the laughter of drunk scoundrels with their arms around your shoulders and your arms around them and you remembered the distant sounds of your own laugh. It was warm and then it was gone. And you were back to the oil lamps and horses with perfectly braided manes, back to carriages and cars that didn’t touch the ground.

You ended up in a nightclub. Crowded, dense. Countless bodies filling this finite space and not one of them noticing your presence. Yet.

You moved like the ghost that you were and were not. Twisting through the forms and figures as you wove your way to the center. For a moment you go still and you watch. These people were so alive. You were too but it was threadbare, ancient and stretched beyond your own memory. Not that your memory entirely worked. You were fractured, battered, bruised, tired. But you didn’t have to be tired for very long. You would settle for simply being fractured.

You idly dance, letting your concentration spread out into the crowd. You let out a silent call and the crowd’s attention snaps to you like iron sand to a magnet. The people watch and yearn and reach and tangle into each other in a desperate effort to get closer to you. Your lips part just barely and you breathe in. Pulling, draining, little twists of energy like strands of spun sugar pulled from each sweat misted body. You are renewed, strengthened. Empowered.

How long have you been doing this? You don’t know how long you’ve existed. Your past is a mysterious and shifting thing that writhes out of your grasp with ease. All you have is fragments that stick into your skin and the myths people share about your kind. Most of them are false. You love garlic. You think. You can’t shapeshift. You aren’t allergic to the sun personally. None of you had fangs or drank blood. A vampire that fed on the necks of lovers was a ridiculous thing. Sure you might be into it but the whole situation is not your fault.

It’s. It’s a little your fault. Don’t have affairs with Hungarian noblewomen.

The fact that you weren’t real was the only bright spot in the situation. You certainly didn’t feel real. You felt like a rough approximation of a person. A shambling puppet that ran on bioelectric batteries and dust. At least people didn’t think you traveled with the secret intent of eating their family. You could travel at night, come and go as you pleased, never stay in one place for long and no one cared. It was far easier than it used to be, when families stocked vampire hunting kits. Not that the kits worked but they made inns unpleasant.

There’s a distant boom and you release the crowd from your hold, just as confused as the rest of them. You follow them out, craning your neck to try to see what caused the sound.

There’s smoke, screams, people running past. The distant sound of bullets pebbling into buildings. You wonder if it’s present, or something that happened long ago. There are few places in this world that haven’t been scarred by violence. You can avoid it for the most part. It’s easy enough to just walk away or to throw yourself further into the past when there was nothing but trees and filtering sunlight.

But you are not walking away. For some reason, you’re walking towards the twisting clouds of smoke. Is it curiosity? Do you still experience it? The world is always discovering new things and yet for so long you just… you took it in and let it go. Let it get lost in the stream of everything that you’ve ever seen. Computers became stone tablets and holograms in your hands. Etchings in clay and ink on paper, one and the same. You don’t recall when you were last excited to see something new. But you are not walking away. You’re walking towards the twisting clouds of smoke.

There’s so much noise. Screams, shouts, bullets and crashes. You can sense the fear, then the rage, then… the hope. You follow that fragile line until you come to a small intersection flashing with strings of light blue. A young woman, pistols in hand, blinks in and out of existence around a raging person. An omnic, you think. Reading the thoughts of omnics is strange. Dangerous. You can so easily fall into them and through them the world around them. Although you seemed to fall through the world just fine on your own.

Another flash, another figure. A gorilla descended from above bringing a shield with him. That was. Well that was unusual. For a moment you thought you had lost yourself in a dream this time, but your dreams weren’t usually this different. Most of your dreams were just memories repackaged with prettier colors. Private picture shows that didn’t feel like you were being pulled in a thousand directions at once. You still felt like you were floating in the murk. This was no dream.

So you listened. The woman was relieved that ‘Winston’ was there. Now they could really get this situation under control. They could distract the omnics until all the innocents in the area were out of the line of fire. They were doing so well and everything was going to be okay. She was the source of hope you sensed. Winston though… He was upset. There were a lot of omnics and he hadn’t gotten many answers to his call. He had a few, but most of them weren’t steady. Come and go. ‘Overwatch’ would need more help. They needed help now. He would even take the risk of the police getting involved if they could help protect innocent people. Desperation. Dedication. Determination.

You didn’t know what you were doing. You did it without thinking. Stretched forward and slipped your power over them. Shielding them while they did the hard work of shooting down the omnic forces. Slowly they made progress. The omnics began to retreat and the chaos had been contained to a single city intersection. 

At some point you had started to run. You didn’t notice until you were miles away and they boarded a plane and somehow the distance became too great. Your presence in their minds faded and you were gone. But you’d heard enough. You’d heard their hope. You’d heard their need. You knew where they were going. Your body didn’t stop running until you were back in the center of a hoard of people. Their words didn’t reach your ears. You stood there, silent, unfocused, drinking in energy while trying to figure out where you were.

They were going to Gibraltar. And without thinking about it, so were you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These first few chapters are, weirdly short? I'm editing the first few that I wrote, hopefully when I catch up on editing and get back to writing I can bump up the length.


	2. Swim towards Shore

What, was Overwatch, again? You struggled to pinpoint their existence, to try to catch the watery memories with your bare fingers. The most you had was the memory of the scent of ash and the taste of metal in the air. Which could, frankly, be anything. That could be literally any war. It didn’t even have to be a war. You could be remembering someone cooking back when it was done in a cast iron pot over an open fire. You could be remembering cigarettes on the hood of a car. You could be remembering flint and flash and open flame in the slight shelter of a rocky overhang.

They were, military. You think. There was a war with… with… they ended it. They ended it and now they were gone, and all you had to go on was an internal chant of the name Gibraltar. Gibraltar, with is breadcrumb trail of internet gossip leading you over this thin bridge to the next memory you’d lose. Enough tiny articles about the rumor of lights near an abandoned base. You were actually stunned by the lack of ‘ghost’ options presented by the internet. That was a go-to, wasn’t it? ‘This is a mysterious phenomena!’ It’s ghosts. ‘Weird sounds in our house!’ Ghosts. ‘Mysterious smells from nowhere!’ Ghosts. ‘Lights in the forest!’ Fae probably but humans liked to say ghosts. Ghosts were the most common supernatural force known to man. Ghosts were responsible for energy costs. Ghosts made your apples turn brown after you cut them.

Maybe you would find actual ghosts in Gibraltar. It’s a possibility.

You wander down the old road that leads to the base. Listening to the world around you, feeling as each mind slips out of your radius. You keep your senses tight around you. You don’t need to know how everyone in this sleepy town is feeling. You don’t want to lose yourself in a whirlwind of emotions that aren’t yours. If there was anything you didn’t need, it was help getting lost.

There is a large door at the end of the road. It is not maintained, at least not as far as you can see. You cannot see any signs of life, even though you can sense something deep within the mountain, far from your physical reach. Can they see you? Are their cameras somewhere? You hover, blank faced and passive. Realizing how suspicious you must seem. A stranger, with no luggage, no gear of any kind, snooping around the doors to a defunct military base. How could anyone know you were friend, not foe? If you even qualified as friend. More of, tentative ally.

Your only hope was that someone would come out to ask why you were there. What you were doing. You didn’t have an answer for them. You couldn’t say that you were a vampire there to do, vampire business for them. They would ask what that meant. Or assume that you were, at best, a liar and a spy. You couldn’t just claim to have psychic powers because you would eventually need to regain that energy and they would ask how. They would ask why. The whole vampire thing was strange at best. Dangerous at worst. Besides, you were never a fighter. If threatened you just… took control of the situation. What were you there for? To cook maybe? Clean? Anyone could clean. You could clean.

It was not an ideal offer.

Still. You were there to help. Didn’t that mean anything?

No one came out that first night. Nor the next. Nor the night after that. But you knew they were there. You spent your days pretending to be on vacation and your nights lingering by the old metal doors. Once or twice you called out, softly, just a name. Winston. You could sense him; you knew he was there. He didn’t come out. You understood, you were a stranger, you wouldn’t be in their system. But you were there. And you were not leaving. The waiting game was boring but you wouldn’t remember it anyway. You had all the time in the world and very little comprehension of what that meant anymore. It blew past you and you let it.

It took two weeks of quietly standing outside of those doors for someone to show up. You sensed him approaching long before he stealthed behind you. He was so, so quiet. Footsteps completely masked. You marveled at his skill, felt his energy move behind you. Swift, agile, cautious. You were being stalked. For most people this would be concerning. But for you? You knew who he was. Genji. You patiently waited for him to take a stance behind you with a cold blade behind your neck. 

“Winston called for help. I am… I’m here.” 

The blade lowered, slowly. It didn’t get sheathed but it was no longer so close to running you through. His stance adjusted. You couldn’t tell where he was looking. He didn’t seem to be an omnic, but he had so many mechanical parts. The temptation to creep through his memories was a strong, but you didn’t come to pry.

“You weren’t part of Overwatch, were you?” It wasn’t a question.

“There was a message playing on my ex’s computer. It went off and I just thought… I should come help.” You lied. Lying came too naturally to you. Too clean. Too easy. You could sense his emotions changing. Suspicion to, interest. Interest to hope. You could push in. You could listen. You could pry. Instead you answered questions, followed him as the old doors creaked open. The entrance tunnel was barely maintained if at all. The walls dripped cracks that flowed through the floor. The lights were mostly out, the ones that weren’t flickered. The decay had its claws in this place. You would have your work cut out for you. This was a task beyond cleaning.

But you had built before. Clay bricks, made my your own hands, alone. Wallpaper, patterned with roses, brand new from the artisans on the east coast. Water collectors under the leaves slick with rain. Was it a hammer or a paintbrush? Were you building a fence or putting in pipes? Were you here or were you there? You slipped in and out of awareness as the man lead you through decrepit tunnels into decaying halls into some only vaguely damaged spaces and out into the open air. It was a beautiful view. You would have loved it a thousand years ago. Maybe a couple of hundred if you were in the right circumstance. But now it was just the ocean. It was just the water. Finite. 

JAnd then there was a workshop, or a lab, something with a lot of tools and boards full of notes and scrap everywhere. The blinking woman was there, and she greeted you with a rush of joy and excitement. You were new, and you were there. Someone else had finally come. She didn’t seem to care that you were a stranger, as though familiarity didn’t matter. You were certainly a friend now. The woman took your hand and eagerly shook it.

“Welcome! Welcome! I’m Tracer, I don’t think we’ve met?” She looked at you curiously.

“No, we haven’t. You weren’t part of Overwatch before.” The gorilla approaches you with more trepidation. He must have checked. Something. People kept files didn’t they. Records. Memories. You kept too many. Perhaps if you poured them all into a computer you would feel a little better. 

“I saw your message and… I’m not a fighter. But I was thinking you could use, administrative help? Cooking and cleaning and… repair I think. Perhaps? This place it’s, crumbling. I can put it back together so you can have the… the… home? You need?” Home wasn’t the word, you were good with your words once. When did that change? Do you remember?

“You can’t function properly here. I’m not looking to make any money here; I’ve got enough money scattered here and there. I just want the chance to help.” Your tongue felt thick and your words too jumbled. Most of your conversations were with people you had mesmerized. This was. New. New and old. You shuddered and pulled all of your abilities into yourself. Quieting the world. To be inside your head alone. How dangerous.

“...Well… You’re not wrong…” Uncertainty. Wariness. Suspicion. Then a bit of pity. Why pity?

“Alright. We can do a trial run.” Winston held his hand out to you. It took you a moment to remember people shook hands. Did they? They bowed. Waved. Touched your face and pressed their foreheads to yours and shook your hand and your hand was in Winston’s and your arms were moving and you seemed to be doing this right. Perhaps. Go you.

“Are you going to be close by then? Living?” Tracer asked.

You nodded. You hadn’t lived anywhere for more than a few weeks in… well you weren’t quite sure. It could have been decades or centuries. Maybe you had lived somewhere for years and years and just, didn’t realize you were there. It wouldn’t surprise you. Oh, they were watching you. You were in a conversation. That would take some getting used to. What was Spain’s rental market like? You could only remember the ham. And a poet who insisted on smelling like lemons at all times.

“Sorry I was, already thinking of what to work on… I think… is there a medical bay? That should come first. At least part of it.” You finally spoke, trying to keep yourself in the moment. “Can I start? Seeing it, I should see it first. Make a plan…”

“Yeah, it’s this way, I’ll show you!” Tracer gently guided you out of Wintston’s space, looking mildly concerned. She didn’t need to be though. You were alright.

Her speed was unnatural. Science moved so fast. Cities changed with every blink. The more people discovered the more they grew and changed and pushed. It was… What was it. Impressive? Probably. You lost her at some point, weren’t sure when. They was so much exposed wiring, and so close to the open sea. A storm would make a puddle and a puddle would hurt someone. That would have to be on the priority list too. At least you didn’t have to worry about being electrocuted during all this. You ate energy, it would be like poking your mouth with a chicken strip. Not really all that life threatening when it’s also sort of delicious. Tracer appeared at your side in a flash.

“Sorry about that! Must’ve went too quick. Could you fix those?” She asked, following your gaze to the wires.

“Yes, I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I rewrote and edited and edited. Didn't realize how long it's been.


	3. Blackberries and Lacquer

Your home was small, and quiet, and simple. A tiny affair on the outskirts of Gibraltar that was neither far nor close to your neighbors. Little more than a place to sleep, the house lacked modern touches. It reminded you of a place you lived before in Italy. No, maybe Britain? It was a shared space with some painters, or a sculptor? No, the sculptor was earlier than that. There were several sculptors but this one, you were fairly sure that this one was in Rome. The painters were in a smaller village with a name no one remembers. If you ever stepped foot where it once stood perhaps… perhaps you would see it. Smell the overwhelming odor of the paints they used. It seeped into everything it touched, wood, glass, cloth, you. Everyone knew which home was yours from your smell alone. Everyone knew you had a home.

Was this a home?

It didn’t smell of paint. Just dust. Even after you cleaned it you could still smell the dust lingering. It was empty; less a home more of a shell. No dishes just paper plates and plastic spoons. A place to numbly eat toast and remember a nameless village with a nameless young soul who tried to woo you with a gift of hand carved wooden spoons. The handles were shaped like leaping deer and they were so smooth. Not a splinter on any surface of them. So beautiful, such a precious gift. You left them in their box on your doorstep and disappeared. Where was that village now? Did it become anything?

You avoided spending time there. It was a nice house but it was. Empty. You needed to fill it but you didn’t want to. That meant more trinkets and that meant more memories made solid, weighing you down even heavier than you already were. So you left it, almost empty, filled with mostly dust and a bed and a couch, paper plates and plastic spoons, and you went to work. 

Pushed yourself to clear out the floors, put new ones in. Wasn’t the first time. The first was with heavy ceramic tiles. You remembered when they were expensive, luxurious. You saw them crafted by hand, each one taking hours, baked in carefully tended furnaces by master craftsman. The smell of burning wood and ash baked into each tile. Meant for the manor of a wealthy merchant or a nobleman. The wealthy loved things that took time to make. You remember guiding a wooden cart up a heavy hill, the workers coming out to take just a few at a time. The owner glared at you with suspicion and checked each and every tile to make sure there wasn’t a single scratch.

“It’s a good horse my Lord. A steady horse.” You mutter under your breath.

You switch between languages with little regard for which you’re using at any given time. You knew a few of them. Enough to speak about horses and tiles and fish. About clay and brick and lacquer. Lacquer on wood floor. Thick and pungent, all the open windows in the world couldn’t pull it out of the house fast enough. Even after it was set and dried and the yellow wallpaper was glued onto the wall a strip at a time, you could still smell the lacquer. It was there for weeks, months. The ghost of it on your tongue, even as you pulled wild blackberries from the bushes in your yard. They were sweet. Not sweet enough to cover it, but still fantastic. You would stand on the fresh floor in your bare feet boiling blackberries into jam and cramming it into jars. Dying your bowls and spoons and clothes. Eating it spread over fresh biscuits. They were never perfect biscuits but with the blackberries.

“Ah! You wouldn’t happen to speak german too, would you?” A loud voice boomed from the doorway. You tripped over yourself, nearly scattering your tools over the freshly finished flooring. The man looking through the doorway was… Tall. You’d seen tall people before, the tallest of them tended towards the fae and unnatural. But this man was human, probably. Ancestry might have given him the height he had, so far back in his bloodstream it remembered a time when the other world walked hand in hand with this one. You shook the thoughts out of your head, hesitantly nodding.

“Haha, good! It’s nice to see a new face here! I’m Reinhardt, it’s good to meet you!” Reinhardt threw out his hand, waiting with a warm patience for you to approach and hesitantly shake his hand. The last time you’d met someone as tall as him, they refused to touch you out of the misguided believe that your telepathy relied on touch. You were too old for such silliness. Too busy being wrapped up in yourself to read this man’s mind. His face said enough anyhow. Excitement and joy and friendliness wrapped into a single enthusiastic handshake.

“Is this your work? This place looks great.” Reinhardt peered over you, taking in the freshly painted walls and newly finished floor. You just needed to finish the baseboards and then the medical wing would be ready for its new furnishes and equipment. 

“Ah… yes… I’m the, caretaker?” Janitor? Repair person? Contractor?” You were the one who put the pieces back together and wandered in and out like a wisp.

“We could use that.” He said softly, “This place used to be something glorious... Let me know if you need help. I’d be honored.”

He reminded you of a baker in a dusty town. The glass on the outside was dirty, the town was drying up, left behind by a fading boom and memories of cars whizzing past that stopped for more than just a gallon of gas. But inside it was clean, and comforting, and filled with the scents of tea and pastry. What little was left of the town often gathered inside, not saying much but taking comfort in each other and the warm mugs in their hands. He would be the loudest. The baker always had a story to tell and he told it even if you’d heard it dozens of times. He would put the same amount of effort in each and every time. Voices, gestures, laughs. He told every story as he kneaded the dough like he knew very well how much of the town’s morale hinged upon his smile. It didn’t weigh him down either. He took to his job with joy. You could taste it in every bite of the flakey custard filled pastries. Vanilla.

“I… alright, I will.” You muttered, foggy from the sudden smell of sugar all around you. A sprinkling on top made even plain pastries look pretty. Egg wash, then sugar. Sprinkle lightly. Then bake it. Wearing white in the morning and walking home in a smeared pastel rainbow from hours of dying frosting. It never washed out. The baker’s tricks only ever worked for his pristine smock. You missed the look of concern. You didn’t miss his hand, warm and heavy on your shoulder. He smiled and gently squeezed.

“Why don’t you take a break? You can join me and my goddaughter for lunch! You’ll like her!” Reinhardt offered.

“Oh, I need to, the wiring. I’m sorry, I need to get started on the wiring. Most of it’s fine, there’s just a few pieces that need replacement so I can finish with the fixtures and then paint. I’ll, have lunch with both of you, another time? Is that okay? I’ll be here. I’m, generally here. Usually. I will be here until the medbay is done.” You said. Hoped you meant it. Hoped you would be there. You weren’t sure about having lunch with anyone but. If he found you then you would go. If the fixtures weren’t done by then. You should hurry. But not too fast. Don’t make mistakes. Just don’t. Don’t get stuck.

Reinhardt stared at you for a few moments with such an unreadable expression you almost reached into his mind just to figure out what was going on. But then he smiled and just, slipped away. He could be quiet when he wanted to be. That was an alarming thing to learn about someone. You shook the concern out of you and returned to your task of setting down the floor drops. You didn’t want to get paint all over the floor that you just put down.

It was only a few minutes before two loud voices broke the tempo of your work. Reinhardt had returned, this time accompanied by a young woman with a gear tattooed on her arm. They set lunchboxes on one of the stacks of material and then turned to face you.

“Hello, I’m Brigette. How can we help?”

“I, what?” You watched Reinhardt toss a handful of grapes into his mouth before motioning to the fabric in your hands.

“We have to cover the floors before we paint.” He announced, ruffling your hair on his way past. The only thing you could really do to stop either of them was, well you’d decided it was out of the question. These few people were off limits for any kind of psychic influence. And being that you were physically the weakest person in the room you had no other tactics. 

The quiet medbay was suddenly filled with sound. You slipped in and out of Reinhardt’s stories, disappearing into crowded marketplaces or wine soaked salons. Couches made of the softest fabrics that you lounged on like you were on the verge of fainting, toying with the hair of whoever decided to lay there with you while someone else started to read a poem until they got into an argument over philosophy. And then you were back, starting to put drops into the other medbay rooms, listening to Brigette argue with Reinhardt about the ‘success’ of one of his stories.

“You came out with broken ribs!” 

“Ah but we vanquished our foes!”

“You broke. Your Ribs.”

You held a drop to your face to hide your smile. It wasn’t good that he was getting hurt, the medbay would need to be finished faster, but… they laughed through their arguments. It was warm and relaxing and the empty rooms didn’t feel so cavernous. You could use paint to help with that too. Make things brighter, more comfortable. Also a little sterile though. Couldn’t be helped. Sterile was good in a medbay, wasn’t it.

“I think that’s done, what would you like us to do next?” Brigette gently pat your shoulder, drawing you out of your daydreams again. She had such an earnest expression. You looked blankly around the room until your eyes took in the paint.

“I, you can take a break if you’d like, it’s-” You stopped yourself. It was rude to keep rejecting people, wasn’t it? Did you care about manners? Part of you remembers table settings, dozens of spoons, hushed language. But another part of you remembers overturned teacups stacked on top of the good lace laughing as the someone tried to toss their hat into the pile. Maybe it was both.

“It’s, the painting next. These cans first… then these… then these…” You slowly shifted from pile to pile, pausing to go drag in a cart of paint that you’d left in the hall while you were setting up the drops. Once the walls were painted you could go about getting equipment. There’d be no getting around using your powers there. You were already trying to think of places to rent, identities to fake, companies that didn’t have enough supernatural things working there to mind a vampire touching the minds of their employees. Some companies got, really, really… Upset.

You understood. They were being good and protective. There was no way you or anyone else could blame them for protecting their own. No force in this world or the next would be able to attack Gibraltar as long as you stood there. Being territorial was just a part of the community you supposed. Even for wanderers like you.

Brigette and Reinhardt started laughing as they fought over the same wall to paint. The ghost of a smile slipped onto your face. Yes. You would protect these heroes.


	4. First Impressions

You had not wanted to celebrate the completion of the medbay. It was just, finished, and that was good, and now there were other things to work on. The kitchens, the workshops, the dorms. Stray wires in the halls, puddles too close to those wires. Big things everywhere you walked and little things as far as the eye could see. Your work was nowhere near close to being done. But when Reinhardt and Brigette approached you there was no way to say no. The two of them radiated such warmth and kindness you could feel it even with your powers as tied up as you had them.

“And here’s to the good memories we’ll have every time we go in!” Reinhardt’s voice boomed, holding up the lemonade like a lager. 

“And here’s to hoping you won’t be injured when you’re in there.” Brigette tapped her cup to his and laughed, “But if you are, I’ll patch you up.”

You would be quite fine if no one ever needed to go into the medbay. It was necessary in case of emergencies but it would be best if there were no emergencies. Especially since Brigette was the only one with any sort of medical aid knowledge and she was going to be out working with Reinhardt for the most part. You wished you had ever bothered to go to medical school, or any school really. The most you knew about medicine was that it could cure and prevent diseases that you had previously watched murder everyone that you knew.

There were plenty of medical schools for you to choose from now. If you could manage to focus your way through them you would have that knowledge for the rest of, well, forever. How long would it take you to make it to the school? No wait, you had something to do first? You had something to do, and it was important, and you were relied on and-

“Hey, hey. Are you alright?” Brigette’s hand was on your shoulder, her face creased with worry. Brigette, part of Overwatch. Overwatch, the organization you were helping. You were helping fix their base. Focus. Stay steady.

“Y...yes. I’m fine. Sorry I just got lost in thought. Are you going to be running the medbay Brigette?” You asked, holding your drink, letting the cool condensation on the plastic remind you of where you where. When you were. 

“If you’re sure.” Brigette hesitantly returned to her fry basket, still nervously watching you, “No, I heard that Dr. Ziegler is going to be coming in to act as our primary physician.”

“Angela is a wonderful doctor. I’m sure she’s going to make good use of the space, and we could truly ask for no one better.” Reinhardt smiled, wiping the crumbs off of his face. You smiled back with relief. A real doctor to keep them healthy and safe. You could now just let the medbay slip out of your mind until it needed repair. One less thing to keep track of.

Now, you could focus on the kitchens. You would need to pull everything out again, good luck doing that when your new friends weren’t watching. As much as you didn’t want them out risking their lives, you also preferred using telekinesis to lifting things with your fragile noodle arms. Even with help lifting things with your arms sucked. You had supernatural powers and would like to avoid moving a fridge around with your physical form. Especially since you couldn’t, wouldn’t, influence their minds. Was there temptation? Oh yes. But you didn’t get as old as you were without some form of self control. Especially since you used absolutely none from 1400 to 1800. That was 400 years of being just wildly irresponsible. 

“It’s nice, having part of the base done. It makes me feel like Overwatch is really coming back, you know?” Brigette said softly, “It’ll be smaller, but we can all look out for each other. Make it better.”

You nodded, watching Reinhardt pat her on the back. Did Brigette ever walk the halls of old Overwatch? Did she know what it was like? Would she compare what was built with what came before? This meant so much more to them than it did to you. You didn’t even know what it meant to you exactly. Everything was still, strange. It was like you were viewing everything in watercolor. But isn’t that how the whole world felt to you at every moment? A shifting, blurring, twist of colors splashing into your eyes too fast for you to take in any distinct shapes or forms. How long before the shapes at Overwatch became lost in everything else?

You should be able to finish the repairs before that happened. The ability to mindlessly complete tasks tended to come in handy when there was a timeline. Maybe someday, a hundred years from now, everything that you’d done with them would come into startling focus. And you would get lost in their names and faces and voices while a thousand other lives were active around you.

“We will do great!” Reinhardt cheered, drawing looks from the other customers in a way that made you more uncomfortable than you usually were. You unfurled just slightly, enough to sense Reinhardt’s boundless enthusiasm and Brigette’s gentler hope, and pushed the others away. Drew their attention to the clouds in the sky, the shapes they formed. It was easy enough, something innocuous that they could easily turn away from. And then you were back inside, wrapped up as tight as ever.

“We should, take something back.” You said softly, pointing at the bakery’s cases. “What do you think? I don’t really know anyone’s tastes…”

“Yeah I can pick something.” Brigette bounced up, immediately heading into the cafe to get something boxed.

“I’m glad she and you are getting along. Brigette does not know many people her age.” Reinhardt said softly. You did everything you could to keep yourself from laughing. A small smile slipped through that you could only hope seemed friendly. Sometimes you wondered how old you looked to humans, or even mortal creatures in general. If there was anything about you that could tip someone off to the truth. A look in your eyes. The way you spoke. A little hint of the ages you’d walked through.

“She’s a lovely person. Brave.” You said. You wouldn’t call her your friend, that was dangerous, but you also wouldn’t say she was a stranger. A work acquaintance, maybe. Far enough… close enough… Too close… Too close…

Too close to the still warm but dead. Held close to you in the middle of a field. For someone who didn’t taste blood you knew the feel of it in your mouth, across your face, soaked into your clothes. Salt and copper and rage. Guilt driven madness. Would they call it a storm? Would there be blame cast about or would you be free? It didn’t matter, didn’t matter. So small and so dead. Your fault. Your words, your influence, your powers pushing to get her where she wanted to be. Into armor and onto a horse and into battle and out of your life. Out of her own life. The taste of blood in your mouth. Salt and copper and rage. How much destruction could one mind cause if it was bent on vengeance. You didn’t remember. Couldn’t remember.

Some things were worth letting go. You were halfway down the street, too caught up in containing yourself and banishing your own thoughts to notice the arm that looped through yours and gently directed you back towards the base. You didn’t hear any of the conversation, didn’t see any of the scenery. You were thousands of miles and hundreds of years away. 

There weren’t exactly blank spots in memory when you where in your past induced haze. Just vagueness, like smeared oil paintings or impressionist art. Everything blurry and impossible to decipher. You knew you were back at base. That, at first, you weren’t working, you were sitting in the small room with the bunk beds wrapped in a blanket. You knew, at some point, you wormed your way out of the bunk room and somehow you were back at work. Mechanical and empty until you finally found your way to the surface and put yourself to your task. The eating areas were a lot bigger than the medbay, plenty of space for an entire base’s worth of staff to cook and eat. Most of the equipment was trashed, so you’d have to smuggle things in. But you’d gotten a lot cleared out in your haze, so that was, good.

You struggled not to dive back in, not to follow the feel of the broom against the floor to a small one room house in the middle of the desert. The sound of horses outside, a knock on the door, a familiar voice asking you if you needed any of the extra eggs from this morning. The sound of boot steps outside, a knock on the door, a familiar voice calling out to you.

“Hey, Dr. Ziegler wants to see you. Everyone gets check ups.” Brigette smiled, holding the door open for you. You nodded and left the broom against the wall. Wait shit. Blood draws. Would the doctor even want to get your blood drawn? Could you convince her otherwise? You didn’t want to use your powers on anyone here. Especially not someone so important. It felt like a violation of the trust that was put in you, a stranger here to do little more than patch some walls. They did not know you and let you help out anyway. You couldn’t just… peer into their minds without permission. It didn’t feel right. Which left you in the uncomfortable situation of a medical exam that you couldn’t avoid.

You felt your skin crawl, the ice in your veins as solid an anchor into this time as anything else. Nothing like the steady climb of inescapable fear to keep you in the here and now. Pinning you in place. An unpleasant strangulation. Brigette tossed you a smile and planted a warm hand on your shoulder.

“Afraid of the doctors?” 

“Y..yeah.” That sounds reasonable. Maybe a desperate admission of a fear of needles could get you out of any lab testing. That could work. 

“Don’t worry! Dr. Ziegler is wonderful. If you want I can stay just outside?” Brigette offered, gently directing you to start walking down the hallways. It wasn’t a far walk, but it felt long, the dread keeping you uncomfortably trapped in a state of here and now. Normally you daydream of such a feat. Your heart dances around the idea of awareness, but you rarely considered the cost. Being aware of danger wasn’t something you generally needed. Danger wasn’t generally present. Logic tries to assure you the danger is small and something that could be easily shed in the grand view of things. You get caught, you get kicked out, you forget. Here and gone. The thought doesn’t help at all. You’re so tired of forgetting.

Brigette helpfully directs you into one of the exam rooms, leaving you alone. You could hear her voice carry through the slightly open door, calling out to the doctor. Murmuring quietly about your fear, drawing out a promise of gentle care, a small laugh and a joke about shields. The voice answering her was… bright. It drew your ear and your attention, a match to an unlit candle. You expected to drift off into the memory of a dancer or singer or poet, but you didn’t. Nor did you fade away into the blurring shifting renditions of orchestra performances through the ages. You were just… listening. And then the door opened.

The woman was lovely. Something about her made your breath catch in your throat but it couldn’t have been loveliness alone. You’d seen a lot of lovely people in the past. History was full of beauty of all kinds, and you knew the company of artists and their muses well. This woman was lovely but there was something else. Something to the way her bright blue eyes shifting from the tablet in her hands to your face. They were filled with cautious optimism. Hopeful but restrained. What was she concerned about? Was it you? Was it the med bay? Was it the organization as a whole? She was so light when she moved. You would accuse her of being fae if you didn’t know better. You could feel the humanity in her. That warm, gentle glow. She took your hand and shook it with a smile that threatened to overwhelm.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Ziegler. Brigette told me a lot about you. I understand that you’re feeling some anxiety so we’ll take this slow, alright? Let me know when you absolutely can’t handle anymore and we’ll continue another day.”

“Ah… Yes. Alright, I understand.” It took you too long to find your words again. Her hand was so soft but her grip was firm and reassuring. She let go of your hand and you found yourself letting go of the breath you’d been holding that whole time. Her touch was light, the quickest brushes of gloved contact as she went about taking your basic vitals.

“I’m very impressed by the work you put in here, I haven’t worked in such nice facilities in quite a while now. I’ve spent the past few years out in the desert in a tent. It was fulfilling work, I was happy.” Dr. Ziegler paused as she finished with your blood pressure, a hand hovering over the field on the tablet. “I’m not sure about this though. I don’t approve of violence and there was so much going wrong with us, just, even amongst each other. The arguing. I don’t know if we should bring all of that back to the surface. The last time… we lost so much… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overwhelm you with all this. You’ve done very well.”

“I- Thank you. I’m glad you’re here.” You blink, “to help. With. medicine. I’m, afraid of needles? And also not a doctor, and, I don’t remember learning first aid but maybe I did and really, I don’t want to put people’s lives on a maybe.”

And she smiled. What a lovely smile.


End file.
